The Hunt for Burning Seed

I feel the highway warp. The hunt for burning seed. What phantom copper it stirs. We rattle our fiery blades. I smear poems with structure.

It makes the plywood theological. I extend a chromium sneeze. I withdraw I blush aluminum. I spin irritations to brush. The spice starts a compliment.

The salon treads its veins. What eyes aren’t living clay? The trees heave toward elegance. My clarinet needs this liniment. It sparkles a visible wisdom.

Structure is an incidental energy. The dollar is an engine. My puddle walks beside itself. I am feeling a string. I am feeling extra extraterrestrial.

An hibachi provides its whatness. I am my own tendency. Personality is an intriguing push. The muse bends a murmur. The palette clangs like culture.

Categorical imperatives worry our sympathy. Throats stir toward anarchic dance. Our reality is an art. The blisters free their volume. The waves paint our sleep.

We play with shining parallels. An immediate apple jets red. A gauze effects a minuet. We get around on blood.

All this is is foam. What happens is glimpsed amusement. The Bach strays into stories. The apples grapple to slop. We make books under pomegranates.

The books express our trinkets. Our syntax our burning desires. Our winter shoes our occupations. Our adjustments our insoluble dreams. Our necessities our aquarium mirrors.

Sandwiches obtain illusionism from belts. They alter exasperation and arabesque. Arabesque is an oily experiment. This occurs in five bones. And then becomes a river.

It goes up an elevator. Water strengthens an old rattlesnake. The oval hobnob prompts affiliation. Aching is proverbial for curls. Everything else is simply shade.